


Passive-Aggressive

by ingenious_spark



Series: Saint Seiya pairings from a hat, Gold Saints Edition [5]
Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Insults, M/M, Making Out, Passive-aggression, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wine, bitching is a legitimate pastime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7607779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mutual pining for an absent friend brings together an unlikely pair in the dead heat of a Grecian summer. That and a lot of wine. Seriously. That's a lot of wine.</p><p>-</p><p>From a series of pairings from a hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passive-Aggressive

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I use Mephisto here in place of Deathmask as his birth name, and Deathmask as the name he earns/gives himself later in life. Also because I'm an American manga fan who never saw the anime, and the American manga release fucked with several of the names.
> 
> Also in which Aphrodite and Milo are the bitchiest friends ever, and Deathmask and Milo spend half the story sniping at each other passive-aggressively.

Milo sighed, sprawled in the shade of the courtyard of the Scorpio Palace, bored out of his skull. It was hot, and the breeze off of the Mediterranean was absent, making the heat stifling and heavy. Even Milo, native Greek by birth, was listless on this weather. Usually at this time he was up at the Palace of the Twin Fish for wine, gossip, and a siesta. Unfortunately, Aphrodite was out of town for the foreseeable future on a long term mission. It was supposed to last no more than three months, and those three months were going to be the longest of Milo’s life.

At least he wasn't the only one pining for Aphrodite’s presence. He heard someone trudging up the hill towards him, a mumbled, half-hearted litany of foul language trailing in his wake. Milo sighed, wondering if had the energy to deal with the Cancer Saint, mopey as he was, and didn't move from his spot. He heard Mephisto collapse to the ground nearby, letting out a huge sigh and disturbing two of the nearby lounging cats.

“Why the fuck are there so many cats here, Milo?” Mephisto asked, quite politely for him. “You're Scorpio, not Leo.”

“Because I give them food and water and don't chase them off. Besides, it was my master and predecessor, Scorpio Tryphosa who established the colony. It's a fine, Greek tradition to have a cat colony.” He mumbled. Mephisto grunted. “Italian good-for-nothing.” He tacked on the insult almost as an afterthought. Mephisto scoffed slightly before yawning.

“Are you as bored as I am? It feels like there's nothing to do with ‘Dite gone,” the Cancer Saint complained. Milo sighed.

“I should be up at Pisces for wine, gossip, and siesta right now,” Milo agreed grumpily. “Instead I'm lying outside in the middle of summer, no breeze, with the cats and an asinine Italian for company.”

“What the fuck do you have against Italy, you fucker?” Mephisto asked lazily.

“Absolutely nothing, I just have something against _you_.” Milo flapped a hand lackadaisically. Mephisto huffed softly, and they were silent for a long while. Milo was at the edge of sleep, to hot to really sleep, but too listless for anything else, when Mephisto finally spoke again.

“...I have wine back at Cancer.” He muttered, and Milo opened one eye, rolling his head to the side to look at him.

“Is it good wide?” He asked curiously. Mephisto scoffed.

“I'm Italian, of course it's good wine, come on.” He laboriously hauled himself to his feet, and Milo noted lazily that they'd had the same thoughts on clothes today, because he wore nothing but loose, breathable athletic shorts hanging low on his hips, like Milo, only Milo’s were white, as opposed to Mephisto’s light blue. Mephisto poked his ribs with bare toes, and Milo heaved a put-upon sigh before hauling himself to his feet as well.

“You being Italian does not naturally infer that you have good taste in wine,” he complained. “You could have absolute shit taste in wine.” Milo followed him back down the hill anyway, meandering through the soft grass looking nothing like the Gold Saints they were in truth.

“Aphrodite drinks my wine, so it has to be good.” Mephisto objected. Milo sighed gustily, but stopped complaining. The inside of Cancer was blessedly cool and dark, and Milo supposed it was because the other Saint had a strong connection to water and darkness. They stepped through to Mephisto’s living chambers, which were surprisingly light and airy, the stucco walls decorated with elaborate, beautiful frescoes. Milo admired them as Mephisto rummaged through his cupboards, coming up with four bottles of wine and two wine glasses.

“Did you paint these?” Milo asked, accepting the glass of wine that was thrust at him a few minutes later. Mephisto set the bottles on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch.

“No, it was my old master, Cancer Dionisio, and I really don't want to talk about him.” Mephisto growled, and Milo dropped the subject, flopping down on the couch next to Mephisto and sipping his wine.

“This is good, congratulations on having decent wine.” He mentioned, and Mephisto smirked. “Know any good gossip?” He asked idly, and they swapped a couple of interesting tidbits. Two bottles in and Milo had draped himself over the couch and Mephisto’s lap, complaining about their mutual lack of Pisces Saint again. Mephisto heaved a put-upon sigh.

“I'm bored, want to make out?” He asked, and Milo blinked up at him, setting aside his wine glass.

“Your resolution to boredom is asking someone you don't even like to make out with you?” Milo asked, genuinely confused. “Literally the only thing we have in common is Aphrodite, who isn't even here.”

“And wine,” Mephisto added.

“And wine. A mutual friend and alcohol. How drunk are you?” He asked suspiciously, and Mephisto rolled his eyes again, looking terribly aggrieved.

“Look, if I flat-out didn't like you, would I bring you back to mine and give you my very nice Italian wine?” He asked, sounding suspiciously reasonable. Milo grudgingly conceded him that point. “Besides, I was only ever kind of jealous about you taking up so much of ‘Dite’s time. But now that I know what you do in the afternoons at least three times a week, I figure I can join you. If Aphrodite doesn't mind.” Milo heaved himself upright, fixing Mephisto with an affronted look.

“And if I mind?” He asked, hypothetically, sliding over to straddle Mephisto’s lap. Mephisto set his wine glass down before grabbing the back of Milo’s neck, flicking the high ponytail the Scorpio Saint was using to keep the heavy mass of his hair off his neck.

“Somehow I don't think you will,” He muttered, before claiming Milo’s mouth. There was nothing delicate or tentative in the way Mephisto kissed, skipping straight to the point, tongues slipping and sliding across each other, teeth nipping, breath hot and scented of good wine. It was a really good kiss. They broke apart, both eyeing each other with vaguely startled interest, and then went in for another. It was just as nice as the first, and they continued on that vein for a while before some of the alcohol and heat-related apathy wore off and they began to grind up against each other, getting worked up despite themselves.

“Shorts off,” Milo panted against Mephisto’s mouth, and he grunted in agreement. With some inventive, flexible wiggling, they both got out of their clothing without even standing, and Milo sighed in pleasure as Mephisto gripped them both in his hand, beginning a rough, addictive rhythm. “I'm going to blow you later, after it's cooled off more,” Milo informed Mephisto, and the Cancer Saint looked interested.

“I'll blow you too.” He offered, and Milo grinned wickedly, diving in for another long, involved kiss.

“I love reciprocity.” Milo panted. “We should seduce Aphrodite together. I think we may have been cockblocking each other this whole time,” he moaned, and Mephisto looked startled and then laughed wryly.

“Think you might be right, now come on Milo, _come_ ,” he encouraged, and a few more rough pulls was all it took. He felt better when Mephisto came not long after, and collapsed against the other boy languidly.

“Now I'm all sticky,” he complained, and Mephisto rolled his eyes.

“You two don't fucking gossip, you bitch at each other, don't you?” He grumbled. Milo shot him a sweet smile.

“That's part of gossiping, dumbass.” He retorted.

**Author's Note:**

> I mention two OCs here, Scorpio Tryphosa, because I refuse to believe women can't become Gold Saints, happily retired on a sunny tropical island somewhere training Saint hopefuls occasionally; and Cancer Dionisio, who died tragically and traumatically when Mephisto was about ten, causing him to start to turn down the path that led him to become Deathmask.


End file.
